Unholy Rites Read Online Free PDF Page A

cousins,” Danutia said, moving aside as he knelt down.
    â€œThe rest of this is mine. She’s even kept my badges from Wolf Cubs.” He lifted out some favorite books from his childhood, Wind in the Willows and A Child’s Garden of Verses . “That’s odd,” he said a moment later.
    Danutia peered inside the trunk. “What?”
    â€œMum’s scrapbooks. When I was here in the fall, they were on the shelf by her bedside. She had me bring one down so she could show me a clipping from a school play,” he said. “I was Mercutio, in Romeo and Juliet. Why would she put them in the bottom of the trunk?”
    â€œLet’s have a look.” Danutia pulled out a volume and flipped through the pages and then gazed up at him, her green eyes bright as spring. She was so close he could smell the crisp citrus of her shampoo. “Look at this. Your mum’s put in newspaper clippings and letters from people and programs from events and her comments, like a diary. All we have to do is find the most recent one.” She glanced at her watch. “Damn, it’s 4:20. I’ve got to go. It’s up to you,” she said, turning towards the stairs.
    Arthur felt a yawning pit open up inside. She couldn’t leave him now. “Wait, what am I supposed to do?”
    Standing in the doorway, she ticked off his instructions on her fingers. “Find the most recent scrapbook. Read it to see whether it mentions any problems your mother was having. Call and let me know what you find out. I’ll give you my number in Buxton.”
    Arthur handed her a pad and pencil from the bedside table. She scribbled and thrust the pad back at him.
    â€œNo personal calls at work. That’s the number at my bed and breakfast, the Temple. Leave a message with Mr. Blackstone if I’m not in and I’ll call you back.” She sped down the stairs, Arthur shambling behind. By the time he reached the cottage doorway, she was sprinting across the main road to where the bus stood waiting. Then she was gone.
    Arthur turned away. Before him lay the empty cottage, dreary in the fading light. He couldn’t face going back upstairs alone. Not yet. He needed a glass of wine and his pipe.

Four
    The next morning Danutia tiptoed down two flights of creaking stairs and into the Temple’s guest dining room, where supplies were laid out for her Do-It-Yourself breakfast. She put the limp white bread in the toaster and held her hands over it to warm them. The central heating system was limited to a few hours morning and evening; it had been on a while, and so the dining room was slightly warmer than her freezing bedroom, but only just. She buttered her toast and sliced a spotted banana into a bowl of corn flakes, but didn’t bother boiling the kettle. With only tea and instant on offer, she’d wait. She and her mentor, Sgt. Kevin Oakes, had agreed to discuss this morning’s case conference over a decent coffee before the meeting.
    Danutia quickly finished her meal, slipped on her jacket and boots, and stepped outside, locking the door behind her. The early morning air was cold and damp. On a high ridge in the distance stood the round tower of Solomon’s Temple, the Victorian folly for which the B&B was named.
    This morning she looked at Solomon’s Temple with different eyes. She’d read in one of Mrs. Fairweather’s books that the tower was built over an ancient burial mound containing skeletons from the Bronze Age, some three to four thousand years ago. That’s what struck her most about England, the sheer oldness of things, if there was such a word. Magnificent churches built before the first European settlements in North America. Modern highways built over Roman roads. And predating the Romans, buried remnants of ancient peoples, ancient cultures.
    She wondered again about Mrs. Fairweather’s interest in Celtic and pagan Britain. It didn’t seem to fit with